The Fallen
by Willowfly
Summary: In a time of unending darkness, an act of depression sends Leonardo's greatest nightmares into motion. Beware the wrath of The Fallen.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

The Fallen

By Willowfly

_A/N: This is an AU horror fic based off of the events of the "Leonardo: Blind Sight" comic arc. However, one is not required to be familiar to enjoy._

* * *

Chapter 1: Prologue

When the phone rang at two AM, Splinter knew something terrible had happened. He could feel the weight of it, crushing his lungs. Leonardo hadn't returned from his training run, despite promises of being home by midnight.

As he wrapped his hands around the cold plastic of the payphone, he couldn't remember the trip down the stairs. His pounding heartbeat told him he'd ran.

"_Sensei…" _His voice wavered. Splinter had never heard such raw fear tainting his son's voice. "I've failed."

He clutched tightly onto the receiver as Leonardo recounted the battle, and his current situation, stranded helpless at the top of a building somewhere in the city.

As he hung up the phone, his hands shook. Donatello was standing pale-faced in the doorway.

"What happened?"

"Your brother has been poisoned," he said quickly. "Wake the others, we must find him."

* * *

The first night was cold, but the days that followed grew colder, and the darkness seemed to never end.

They found him on a rooftop in Lower Manhattan, huddled under the eve of the building next to the freshly-killed body of a homeless man.

He was covered in blood, and he was blind.

As the weeks of silence stretched on and Donatello's endless blood tests continued to prove fruitless, Leonardo sunk deeper into himself. He hadn't slept in days, giving his eyes a dark, sunken quality that had nothing to do with the poison. Meditation replaced everything, including meals if he was allowed, until someone finally dragged him away. But even then, he ate little, spoke less, and wandered around the Lair for hours looking lost.

From what he would sacrifice of the story from that night, the death of the homeless man had been an accident. He'd been blinded, and then tricked into taking the life of an innocent. But in Leonardo's mind, that mistake made him wicked.

As the days passed and Leo's depression grew deeper, the others began to wonder if their brother had returned to them even more damaged than what first appeared.

That was when Michelangelo thought it would be a good idea to bring him to the rooftops. He needed some air, needed someplace familiar away from the Lair where he could just take a break from himself for a while.

Leo followed him, and for a moment, it seemed the night air would do him good. He got him talking, at least, and it was good for Mike to hear his voice again, to see his brother actually talking things out instead of just stewing over everything all bottled in.

But when Leo starting talking about his purpose, about being a weapon, about throwing his swords over the edge of the roof, Mike didn't know how to react. Those were things he always tried not to think about, and being called a 'weapon' was something that had never crossed his mind.

I mean, there's more to life than just being a warrior, isn't there?

But Leo wouldn't be reasoned with. He needed a distraction, not more time to brood, and Mike was trying in every way he could. Leo just wouldn't budge. He'd dug his heels into the ground and Mike quickly found himself at a loss for words.

All he could do was watch his brother stare sightless over that building ledge, a horrible, tight feeling sinking into his gut.

When Leo asked for time alone, he knew it was a bad idea to give it to him. Even as he headed back down the stairs, he couldn't remember why he did it anyways.


	2. Chapter 2: Fallout

Chapter 2: Fallout

On a Friday night in December, Canal Street was relatively quiet. People came and went, huddled warmly against the bitter air, dodging in and out of the halos of streetlights.

Parked on the curb outside the lighted windows of a twenty-four hour Starbuck's, Sergeant Leonard Meyers and his partner, Officer Craig Martin, sat nursing warm cardboard cups of black coffee. They watched the street silently through steamed windows, enjoying the night.

That was until the screams.

Lenny knew it wasn't unusual for someone to be screaming their head off for no apparent reason, especially on a Friday night, but in the short time he'd been working with Officer Martin, he knew the man took no chances.

He really did live up to his reputation—both a hardass and a perfectionist to a fault. Most of the time, it just sent them running circles halfway across the city to investigate the tiniest things. But every so often, Martin's predator-like obsession paid off.

This was one of those nights.

As the squad car pulled up behind the huddle of people on the sidewalk, the siren lights lit up the building sides. The flash of a camera erupted from the crowed to meet them. Quickly, the two men scrambled out of the car.

Martin was the first to push through the crowd. "All right, all right. Everyone get back!"

"Sweet mother of God…"

Lenny struggled through the mass of bodies to the center of the commotion. When he finally got a glance, he couldn't believe his eyes.

Someone…_ something _had jumped. It lay practically embedded in the concrete sidewalk, now nothing but a twisted, gory mess of blood, organs, and body parts steaming in the frigid air.

Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't human.

"Lenny, get up on that roof," Martin ordered, pushing the crowd away from the body.

Lenny hadn't noticed he'd been standing there with his mouth open. He quickly glanced up to the building's rooftop, towering a good ten stories above them, and felt like his stomach had been pumped full of ice water.

"Not without backup," he replied.

Martin nodded and started clearing the crowd away as Lenny called it in.

In an instant, the once-quiet street was filled with light and noise. The news crews swarmed in like vultures and the body was literally scraped off the sidewalk in bloody chunks like a fresh wad of gum.

As the body was bagged and carted to the ambulance on a gurney, Lenny knew it was going to be one hell of a long night.

* * *

Detective Howard Davis had been awake for forty-eight hours straight just trying to make sense of the situation. Though thirty years on the force meant he was no newbie, he'd never seen anything quite like this.

Sighing, he leaned forward heavily on the piles of paperwork littering his desk, rubbing at his temples.

At least for now the body was bagged and in the morgue. The guys down in forensics were having a hay day, too—having their fun taking samples and making their crazy theories about whatever that thing was.

That _thing. _He just couldn't get it out of his head. Sure, he'd seen his fair share of blood and guts, and he'd learned enough to be unfazed by it, but that _thing_ had utterly terrified him.

He had a family to worry about; a wife and a little girl, and they didn't live too far from where they found it, either. It was sickening to think that creatures, monsters carrying swords like some kind of horror movie ninja serial murderer could be lurking around anywhere in the city.

Down in the morgue, Lansing had said it came from the sewers. It'd been running around right under their feet all along, doing god knows what.

Davis knew that whatever that thing was, if it carried weapons like that, it couldn't be friendly. And if there was one, there's probably more lurking right under their noses, waiting for the right opportunity. The people were in danger, his family was in danger, and it was his duty to protect them.

He'd gotten off the phone with the FBI just minutes ago, granting him a full-scale government investigation. A SWAT team was arriving tomorrow to search the sewers, and a pair of agents were scheduled to arrive on the hour to remove what was left of the body.

Then, he called his wife, told his daughter he loved her, and promised he'd be home for dinner. Selina was making mac n' cheese.

And in that small moment, Davis was reminded of just how much he had to protect, and everything he had to lose.

He'd keep them safe, no matter what it takes.


	3. Chapter 3: Bloodshed

Chapter 3: Bloodshed

As they made their way through the eerie caverns of the Lower Manhattan sewer tunnels, Lenny Meyers couldn't stop wondering what the hell he was doing there. The stench was overpowering, trudging through the greasy slop of sewage and grayish runoff, the putrid moisture seeping through his boots.

Lenny breathed through his mouth and tried not to gag.

Below street level, it might as well have been midnight. The only natural light penetrating the darkness peeked through in beams from the cracks of manholes and sewer grates. Mostly, the group of solemn-faced men pressed on silently by the light of orange flashlight beams, fear written on their faces.

The flashlights made every shadow feel alive. Webs of tree roots growing through the ceiling hung limply overhead appeared sinister. Every drip of moisture or burble of half-frozen sludge was deadly. Every pile of garbage caught in flashlight beams injected hearts with adrenaline.

Lenny's ankles were going numb. A rat the size of a housecat scurried overhead on a rusted pipe, and he tried not to think about it.

"Do you really think there's more down here?" He asked the man beside him, trying not to let his voice betray him. He couldn't see his face behind the visor, only the strange gleam from the flashlight it reflected.

The man didn't answer. From somewhere far off down the tunnel, a voice echoed through the silence. The group froze.

Lenny's pulse pounded in his throat.

"What the…"

"Shh. Watch your step," a masked officer whispered in harsh tones. His flashlight beam swept across a dry spot on the broken concrete floor. "There's a tripwire."

Every muscle in Lenny's body froze. What the _hell _was a tripwire doing in the sewers? What the hell was he even doing here?!

But the group pressed on, guns drawn and pointed with expressions of lethal concentration. Lenny followed, his trembling fingers dancing eagerly across the trigger of his gun. He gripped it until his knuckles turned white, breaking into a nauseating cold sweat.

They moved further down the tunnel, toward the soft echo of voices. No one said a word.

And then, they stopped. The tunnel ended in a brick wall where the system had been blocked. Lenny nearly collapsed in relief.

Then, the flashlights swept the ground at the edge of the wall. A man from the group kneeled beside it, sweeping his black-gloved hand through the layer of grime collected there. Beneath it, the ground was scarred as if something had been dragged across it—something hard and heavy enough to carve into the concrete.

Also, a set of footprints, two-toed.

The man stood, hand raised, three fingers poised for the countdown. The others tightened their hold on their guns.

Lenny tried to swallow, but couldn't.

Three fingers. Two. One. Then, chaos. A lever was pulled and the brick wall split open with the sound of grinding stone, flooding the blackened tunnel with blinding light. The team rushed in, guns drawn, barking orders, filling the cavern the way cawing ravens surround a kill.

There were more. _Oh god_, there were more. Lenny's head swam as he stumbled into the light, pupils straining to constrict, staying in formation like he'd been switched to autopilot.

The Capitan was screaming at the creatures. The creatures watched with raw terror ablaze in their eyes. Confusion, and so much terror.

The squad had them all at gunpoint. Something sick twisted inside Lenny's gut when the monsters slowly raised their hands in surrender. His grip on the gun slackened.

And then the moment was over. Adrenaline rushed through his muscles like a wildfire. His vision went white. His trigger finger flexed. The gun discharged and unloaded.

Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.

There was a sick crack, a squelch of blood. The creature let out a feral bellow, then a choke, crashing into the concrete with the sound of a car accident, its shell screeching like nails on a chalkboard as it slid across the brick wall. Its weapons clattered to the ground.

When Lenny's vision cleared, his attacker had collapsed in a bloody heap. The world stood still. The wounded creature blinked and made a noise as it worked its tongue, a tear rolling from the corner of its eye. One of the wounds spat a fountain of arterial blood, a mist of lethal red.

From every bloody hole in the thing's chest, web-like cracks oozed and split like a walnut shell. Every heave of its chest exposed the blood-pink meat. The creature stopped struggling, laid his head back, mouth agape, dripping with pink foam saliva.

Its dark eyes narrowed into a vicious glare.

Behind him, the Captain ordered for the animals to be cuffed.

The creature's face slackened, expression softening. With his last, dying breath, it whispered a single word.

"…_Leo."_

Lenny watched on in horror until its eyes glazed and the blood spurts slowed into a trickle.

When it was done, he finally turned back, and found himself face-to-face with one of the still-standing. Its hands were bound behind his shell, and he walked just like a man.

For a moment, their eyes connected. His eyes were blue. Behind them, he saw grief. Unmistakable pain and grief.

The creature turned its head away.

Larry slowly lowered his gun. Hollow, drained, dirty, cold.

"Oh God…" he whispered, "what have we done?"


	4. Chapter 4: Reckoning

Chapter 4: Reckoning

Davis didn't realize he'd nodded off until he was awoken by an urgent tapping at his office door. He bolted upright from his nest of paperwork and gazed at the figure standing outside. His partner was gesturing to him frantically, her expression grim.

Through the glass, she mouthed the words, "Get out here_ NOW_."

Davis stumbled to the door. "Stacie, what happened?"

"There's more," she said, "and the Feds brought them _here_."

Immediately, Davis pushed past her, half-sprinting down the hallway. Stacie trotted beside him, cheeks flushed as she pressed a thick pile of papers into his hands.

"And get this," she said breathlessly, "the case's been reassigned. There's some hot shot government agent waiting for you in conference room six."

"Great. Just great," Davis spat, an angry bubble building in his chest. "Are they out of their minds?!"

Rounding the corner, Stacie threw him a wry smile. "It's the government. _Of course_ they are."

Davis didn't have a chance to answer. Outside the interrogation room, a gurney covered in white cloth was being pushed down the hallway toward the morgue. It was escorted by a row of stern-looking men in black suits, and obviously held a dead body.

The pair stumbled to a halt as it was wheeled out straight in front of them. Davis frowned, clutching his stack of papers. The three men swept past, staring at them critically.

No one said a word. The gurney wheels squeaked down the quiet hall.

Then, something slipped from under the sheet. A clatter of metal on the linoleum made Davis jump. Before he could realize, Stacie was bending over and picking the fallen thing up. As she stood, she cradled it in the palms of her open hands, mouth agape.

It was some sort of weapon, three tines filed into vicious points. Its handle was wrapped in red tape.

Stacie turned it in her hands and touched the longest tine with her fingertip. Immediately, she was bleeding.

"What is this thing?" She breathed.

That called the attention of the guards. The gurney stopped and one stepped forward, blank-faced, and ripped the weapon from her hands. "Crime scene evidence," he responded coldly. "Be on your way, detectives."

Then, the man returned to his formation and the gurney was wheeled through the swinging door and into the morgue.

As the door swung back, both detectives saw a green, three-fingered hand hanging limply from under the sheet.

"_Damn,_" Davis whispered, fussing with his papers before glancing quickly at Stacie's finger.

The prick welled with a perfect bead of blood. She quickly popped it in her mouth, sucking it clean.

"I don't like this," he said grimly. "Not one bit."

Stacie's dark eyes flicked to his, wide with fear. She pulled her finger from her mouth and frowned as the blood came again. "I know," she sighed. "I feel like they're up to something. The Feds, I mean. Why bring them here? Why expose us to this if they're trying to keep things so well hidden?"

Davis flipped through the papers, completely unfocused on what they said. At the end of the hall, the morgue doors were still swinging. "I have no idea. All I know is if they want us involved, then I'm sure as hell gonna do it. These things scare the hell outta me, but they're out there. I've seen them, and I won't rest until every one of 'em is caught or dead."

"You know what I think?" Stacie mused, pulling her finger out of her mouth again. "I think it's a publicity stunt. They're up to something, I can smell it."

"What would the Feds want with publicity? Ain't that the opposite of what they do?"

"Maybe," she said, biting her lip, "or maybe not. I'm sure they have their reasons, but now I want to find out." She paused, sucking her finger again. "I think I'll head down to the crime scene and see what I can find. I'll see you tomorrow, Howard."

Davis lifted his head and frowned as he watched the woman leave. "Yeah, but make sure you clean up first. You'll taint everything with you bleedin' all over the place."

Stacie turned and took and started walking backwards, a growing smile on her face. "Yeah, yeah."

"And bring backup," Davis said more seriously. "You don't know what the hell's down there."

Stacie's grin turned wry, pushing her jacket back to expose the gun holstered on her hip. "You know me. She's all the backup I need." But when Davis's expression remained hardened, she lost her grin, the notes of humor suddenly leaving her voice. "If there's a problem, I'll call. I promise."

Davis shuffled the stack of papers, giving his partner a solemn nod. "Thank you."

And then she was gone, leaving Davis alone, standing outside conference room six.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

* * *

Inside the dim-lit interrogation room, Davis found himself alone with yet another black-suited man. He was standing in the shadows. Davis couldn't see his face.

"Welcome, Detective Davis," the shadow said smoothly. "Please, sit."

Shaken, Davis did what he was told. The metal chair screeched as he pulled it across the linoleum floor, sitting himself at the scarred wooden table, placing his stack of papers in a neat stack before him. The man in the shadows remained standing.

"Two days ago, your agency stumbled upon a highly dangerous pocket of mutants my department has been chasing for over seven years. Its importance to our research and the safety of the people of Earth is critical to our cause. This case runs deeper and wider than you can imagine, Detective."

Davis shifted uneasily in his chair, the bubble of anger blossoming in his chest again. "Then why bring them here? Why bother talking to me when you could be taking all of your fancy equipment and killing those things?!"

"Patience, Detective. I have my motives, and you may have the opportunity to discover a small portion of them if you prove useful. But first, I must ask you for your assistance."

Davis blinked and swallowed hard, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He knew this guy meant business, and his question wasn't a request. It was an order.

"What do you want from me?"

In an instant, the curtain hanging over the two-way mirror was pulled, flooding the room with light. Inside, a creature stood, strapped to a type of gurney with thick, leather buckles. Its hands and feet were bound, and though it was unmoving, Davis could see it breathing. He could see its eyes.

It was a_live._

"Sweet mother of Jesus…"

"These creatures are wise to me," the agent continued. The fluorescent light from the brightly lit interrogation room had chased the shadows from his face, reflecting off his dark glasses. His expression was cold and stone-like. "They'll be expecting my involvement. Especially this one. For now, I need them to continue thinking the EPF is outside this investigation. Do you understand?"

Davis's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He couldn't keep his eyes off the thing strapped to the table in the next room. The _mutant, _the agent had called it. And it knew this man. It was _wise._

His voice came out as a croak. "I…"

"You will be doing the interrogations. We will not be giving you any more information on the circumstances of this case. Occasionally, we will be feeding you questions, but not until the EPF's uninvolvement has been established. Agreed?"

"What…" Davis cleared his throat, shuffling his papers. "What exactly do you want me to ask it?"

The agent's expression remained stern. He adjusted his tie in a haughty manner. "For now, anything. This is the first interrogation, but it will not be the last."

"And I suppose I don't have a choice."

"No."

"Then you know my answer."

The agent nodded and Davis swallowed hard as he stepped forward, offering his hand. The detective stood and shook it.

"My name is Agent Bishop. Welcome to Project Gamma."

And Davis thanked him, terror like ice water in his veins.


	5. Chapter 5: Promises

Chapter 5: Promises

Davis entered the interrogation room with terror and nausea churning his stomach like a cement mixer, his knees barely able to support him.

The entire room reeked to high heaven, stunk of sewer smell and something odd, waxy, reptilian. Distantly, he remembered the pet snake he'd had as a kid. It smelled greasy, just like that.

Trying to take a step forward, Davis found his feet planted to the floor. He didn't want to do this. Every part of him didn't want to do this. But he forced himself, stepping closer.

As he closed the door behind him, the creature's eyes watched him, human-like, as if the animal had stolen them from a man's face. Otherwise, the creature didn't speak. His expression was sad and blank.

Expression. It had an _expression._ Something about that felt demented.

Davis wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, clearing his throat.

"My—" He stammered, staring at the creature's hands. Three fingered, just like the bodies of the two others. Every inch of the thing's skin was covered in scars. "My name is Detective Howard Davis."

The mutant watched him steadily, expression unchanging.

"I don't know if you can understand me, but—"

"I understand you," the creature cut in sharply.

Davis's eyes widened, bewildered. Its voice was young, clear, smooth, and masculine.

It read his reaction perfectly. Its voice was dull, cold. "And yes, I can speak, too."

It waited patiently as Davis struggled for words. All he could manage was an inhuman choke and a squeak.

The creature sighed, resting its head back on the gurney, studying the ceiling. The weight of the sigh surprised him, so full of emotion behind those human eyes staring from a green, inhuman face.

For a moment, Davis was almost sure it was on the verge of tears. As the silence went on, it never looked back from the ceiling. The next breath it took shuddered, almost a gasp, and a pang of guilt twisted in the detective's stomach.

In an instant, Davis knew. Whatever this creature, this mutant, this _thing _was, it was no monster.

"Who _are _you?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. The creature turned his head, staring back with glassy eyes. Its hairless brow was furrowed, face pained. "I believe you mean '_What _are you?'. If that's the question, I'm a mutant turtle. Not an alien, not a demon, not some harbinger of the apocalypse. I was born a turtle in New York, and after a series of incidences, I am what I am today."

Davis wasn't sure _what _he had meant by the question, but everything was getting way too sci-fi for him. He needed to make sense of this. He needed something simple. He needed something even minutely close to real.

For the love of god, he needed a vacation.

"What's your _name_?"

The creature gave him an odd look—puzzled, disgusted, maybe even amused. Davis felt himself flush, a beat of sweat rolling down the length of his spine. Did it even have a name? Did it matter?

No. Probably not.

The creature frowned. "Maybe I should ask _you_ a question, Detective." He paused, waiting for a response but receiving none. Davis only stared. "Exactly what do you want from us?"

Caught off guard, the detective fidgeted under the weight of the creature's gaze. His mouth flapped open again and again, wordless. "To be honest," Davis finally began, tearing his eyes away from the thing's intense stare. He hesitated, then spoke again. "I don't even know."

The creature's voice went deadpan. "You don't know."

"No."

"You kill my brother. You break into my family's home. You point your rifles at us and cage us like animals. You make me sit in this room with no food, water, or the slightest ability to _move _and you dare to tell me you have no reason. The least you could do is lie."

There was bitterness in his words, hate in his eyes, anger in his expression, but every inch of it was calculating, cold, terrifying.

It began to make Davis question exactly who the monster was.

The creature's eyes narrowed to a glare, chest heaving, hands balled into fists. When he spoke again, he hissed it through his teeth. "What did you do with him? What did you do?!"

Adrenaline was racing through his bloodstream. Davis staggered backward with a shocked expression. "Who? I haven't done a thing. I don't know what you're talkin' about!"

His voice was full of ice. Suddenly the room was freezing. "My brother, Leonardo. The way you found the Lair, I know you have him. You used him to track us. It's the only way. So you better tell me now, redeem yourself. If he's safe and you agree to free us, I promise my father won't feel honor-bound to kill you."

The day's amounted stress and anger bubbled in his chest like a thick stew. Before he could think clearly, Davis glowered in the creature's face. "Is that a _threat_?"

"Yes," it said coldly, "I believe it is."

A silence hung like strung electrical wires until he snapped, voice caustic as motor oil. "Your brother's dead. He took the swan-dive three days ago. I watched them scrape what's left of his body off the street. I didn't have to do a thing."

The creature bellowed, a feral scream that echoed off the walls. Davis's anger turned to shock, watching it struggle against the binds. "Liar!" He roared, rocking the gurney with his effort to break free. "No! It isn't true!"

Davis stumbled to the door just in time to watch the first strap break. Behind him, the door flew open, handle slamming into the concrete wall behind it. Davis jumped and turned to see a flood of agents barreling into the room.

More straps had broken, but not enough to free it. From every side, the agents held it down, one of them brandishing a hypodermic needle. He plunged it into the monster's skin.

Almost immediately, the thrashing stopped. Its bellows quieted to weak, kitten-like mewing.

When the sea of men parted, he could see its expression—sick, hazy, and utterly exhausted. Its dull, heavy-lidded eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

The men tightened the straps, replacing those that were broken, and wheeled the creature toward the door in silence.

And Davis stood, helpless, watching. Through the haze, it spoke to him once again, its voice diminished to a strangled whisper.

"We _will _find you. Even in the afterlife, I promise we will find you."

Then it was gone. The door closed behind them, leaving Davis alone with the humming of fluorescent lights. In his back pocket, his cell phone buzzed. Heartbeat rocketing in his chest, Davis almost chuckled as he fished it out.

That is, until he checked his call log.

The room was cold, a chill crawling up every vertebrae of his spine.

Ten missed calls, all from Stacie Fields.


	6. Chapter 6: Fear

Chapter 6: Fear

Stacie Fields had never seen anything quite like this, which was saying quite a lot, considering the last three days of her life had been spent investigating a case surrounding the death of a suicidal, sword-wielding turtle. But this was New York, after all, and she always had been one to chase after the bizarre. The stranger, the better.

When she'd first seen the corpses, of course she'd been frightened. But as the days passed on, Stacie found herself more intrigued by the case than anything. In a way it was funny to see the expression on Davis's face every time she'd seen him lately. He always looked so terrified, and he'd been so horribly jumpy.

But now, finding herself alone at the scene of the last, bloody standoff, Stacie couldn't deny the chills running down her spine.

After a long, sludgy trudge through the sewers of Lower Manhattan, her feet and legs were already numbed to her knees. She'd quickly lost all sensation in her fingertips as she swept her weak flashlight across the pitch-black cavern.

At least here it wasn't wet and not nearly as cold. In a way, it was almost comfortable, which was somehow extremely unnerving.

Aside from the tangle of caution tape, white evidence tags, and the drawn chalk line tracing a body's outline across a blood-spattered wall, the place felt homey in a forbidden sort of way. It reminded her of visiting her grandmother's house weeks after she'd passed on—abandoned and shabby, but lived-in, like the house was waiting for the dead one's return.

Or they never truly left.

The lights in the place weren't working when she arrived, but the guys at the agency had warned her the wiring was jury-rigged, so she didn't bother messing with it. Instead she wandered through the underground home by the weak light of her flashlight beam, sweeping it through the eerily empty rooms.

In one corner, a shabby sofa sat, carefully patched with duct tape. Beside it, a half-empty glass sat on an upturned spool used for electrical wire, refurbished as a makeshift end table. Across the way, an entire wall of television screens winked a warped reflection back.

Stacie found herself shining the beam over them, awestruck by the sheer ingenuity of it. The massive tower of screens had to be at least ten feet tall. It must have taken years to build.

Then, something behind her in the reflection moved, and Stacie gasped. She whirled around to shine her light into the darkness, but found nothing.

She listened hard to the whispering rush of water running through the massive pipes overhead. Then, a distant rustle came from the other room.

She walked noiselessly toward the source of the noise, pretending her hand wasn't shaking. Her pulse wasn't racing. Her palms weren't sweating.

As she neared the threshold, the noise stopped. She found herself standing in the doorway to a pitch-black, silent kitchen. She swept the beam over the countertops, across the dripping faucet beating its rhythm of _tap, tap, tap. _Beside the doorway, papers and garbage littered the floor from an overturned trashcan.

A rat scurried out of the way of the beam, kicking up a potato chip wrapper in the process. And Stacie shrieked, instantly dropping her flashlight. When it hit the ground, it flickered out and rolled out of reach.

Three days of hunting suicidal sewer monsters and she still found the rats more terrifying.

Still grumbling to herself, she knelt down and felt through the mess of garbage for the flashlight. After a few minutes, she was still fumbling when a soft noise on the other side of the room caught her attention.

It sounded like the scuffling of bare feet against concrete.

She froze, listening to the dripping faucet and its constant _tap,tap,tap. _

And then, a creak, a slow sound like moaning wood groaning under immense weight, a drawer being pulled open. The scuffle of skin against concrete, and something that sounded far too much like breathing.

Breathing… it must have been her own, or the way everything echoed in this place was playing tricks on her ears. With a sigh, she told herself not to worry and started looking for her flashlight again.

But the longer it was taking to find the light, the farther Stacie's pupils were stretching. They felt like starving mouths eating up the darkness in search of any kind of light. It was a darker than anything she'd experienced in her life—no windows, no streetlamps, no moonlight, no stars. As a detective, Stacie thought she'd learned everything about working in darkness, but that was nothing compared to this.

The only light came from the tiny LCD clock on the microwave, and she could feel her eyes aching for more. Briefly, her fingertips brushed the smooth metal of the flashlight, and she was overcome with a wave of relief.

She swore as it rolled out of reach for the second time that night. "Shit."

Then, the hair on her neck bristled, a pulse of electricity running its fingers down her spine. By her ear, something hot and moist welled against her skin like a breath. Footsteps ran across the concrete floor. Unmistakable. A drawer full of cutlery was slammed closed, the metallic chime of fork tines and something hollow and metallic, rolling across the floor in front of her by the weak green microwave light.

Stacie's heart was beating so fast, she was sure she'd be sick. But silver adrenaline had overcome her like a kick in the head, somehow velcroing her hand to the rogue flashlight. She quickly fumbled to flick it on.

And the trashcan kept rolling, echoing an awful metallic noise until it hit the wooden cupboards along the far wall and stopped. Stacie focused on the can, breathing hard.

She was too afraid to take the beam away.

"Who's there?" She asked boldly, voice loud and clear, betraying her thundering pulse.

No one answered. They didn't have to. Instead, the trashcan came rolling back again across the floor, and she watched on in terror as it moved like it was pushed by an invisible hand.

Then the can stopped in mid-roll in the middle of the floor, completely unmoving.

She was shaking. Her lungs refused to take in air, and from the corner of her eye, she swore she saw a figure watching her, so thick and black it seemed to suck all the light from the room.

In her other hand, she hit redial again. Both Howard and Lenny weren't picking up their phones. With a trembling breath, she gathered her courage and flashed her light at the figure. The corner was empty. She stood there staring at the emptiness for a good, long while, listening to her heartbeat in a silence that put all others to shame.

Behind her, the kitchen drawer slowly slid open. She turned and shrieked just in time to watch it slam.

The sound of her own scream echoed through empty cavern, stretching on and on for what seemed like miles. Outside the room, someone was sprinting across the floor. The sound of a chain creaking.

Gathering her wits, Stacie wandered through the door back toward the room with the wall of TV's, shining her flashlight down the empty hall and into the opening to yet another room.

Inside, a punching bag was rocking back and forth, the old chains creaking like a rusty playground swing.

_Creak, creak, creak. _

"Who…. Who's there?" She stammered, watching the shadow of the old bag rock.

But quickly, she turned away, not waiting for an answer. She'd immediately decided she wasn't going to indulge her curiosity anymore. She would _not _wind up like one of those stereotypical horror movie girls. It was more than time for her to get the fuck out of there and _fast._

She called Davis's cell phone one last time, pressing it to her ear as it rung, intending to leave a voicemail this time. But once the ringing stopped, the message system wouldn't pick up. Instead, silence lingered for an uncomfortable span of time.

Stacie frowned at her phone. It was on and fully charged, and the call was still connected. She pressed it to her ear again. This time, silence wasn't the only thing she found.

Heavy breathing and a strangled whisper: "…_Leo._"

She instantly dropped the phone. The wall of TV's screamed to life, drowning the room in blinding light and static. Overwhelmed with stimulus, she clamped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut tight, but not before catching a glance of the dark, strange figure staring at her with black-hole eyes, haloed in the static's silver light.

Behind her, something heavy and metallic clattered to the ground.

That was when Stacie knew she was going to die.

Slowly, she uncovered her ears and opened her eyes. The light and noise of static continued to blare, and the shape, _the creature_, was still staring with its sunken, black-hole eyes. In his hands, he held a pair of polished twin swords reflecting the white light.

Then, the world snapped back to darkness. Stacie dropped her flashlight, and never picked it up again.

Countless feet above on the abandoned, snow-covered streets, screams cut through the frigid afternoon air.

They seeped out through the manhole covers like ghastly curls of steam.

* * *

When Davis arrived on the street outside the closest sewer entrance to the crime scene, crowds of people swarmed with ambulances, congesting the icy street. Breath uncurled from open mouths, laced with whispers of the sewer monster's latest victim.

Davis parked his red Volvo on the snowbanked curb, flashing his badge to cut through the mass of bundled bodies huddled against the raw cold air.

The sun was setting a hazy gray, making promises of snow. The streetlights flickered on.

As Davis rounded the side of a flashing ambulance, he saw the sheet-covered gurney. He saw the grim faces. His eyes were glued to the lump under the clean, white cloth stained with blots of crimson, the flecks of blood that dribbled out, seeping into the dirty snow.

A hand against his shoulder forced him to look up. When he raised his eyes, Lenny was standing there, pale-faced and sallow, desperation in his grip.

"Howard…Stacie killed herself. They-they're saying she cut her own throat open." The man choked, eyes wild, pressing something heavy and cold into Davis's limp hand. "With this."

He instinctually curled his fingers around it, lifting it to his face. A weapon, three-tined, its handle wrapped in scarlet tape. The longest tine was covered with a heavy coat of blood.


	7. Chapter 7: Omens

Chapter 7: Omens

Davis didn't remember the drive home. Even as he unlocked the door to his brownstone house, he felt completely numb. All he could think about blood, and he wouldn't allow himself anything else. Wouldn't allow himself to feel it in his gut that Stacie Fields would never even _think _of killing herself. Wouldn't let himself remember the weapon Lenny had pressed into his hand had been taken and locked in the evidence locker just hours before. Wouldn't allow himself to think about that look in the creature's eyes when he promised revenge.

"…_We will find you."_

Empty. Had to be empty.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was just _not right._

The key turned in the lock and Davis opened the weathered door, throwing a glance over his shoulder, just in case. It was growing dark, and the streetlamp outside his stoop glowed a steady, dirty orange. And he shuddered, because he felt dirty too.

"What do you think you're doin'?" Came a harsh voice from the next room, footsteps, a shadow standing in the hall silhouetted by the kitchen light. She stood there staring with her arms crossed, a wooden spoon in her hand and displeasure on her face. Davis halted in the doorway, and slowly cracked a broken smile. Then, she was unfolding her arms and laughing, throwing him a one-armed hug. "Where've you been, detective-man? You know we don't let no strangers in here."

Davis grinned, suddenly feeling lighter as he hung his damp hat and jacket. "Yeah, sorry, baby. Work's been drivin' me to crazy town and back."

She chuckled a bit, her wide, white smile and laughing, bright eyes seemed to chase all the shadows away. "Long as you come back for a little sugar every now and then, I'm happy," she grinned, smacking his behind with the spoon as he untied his shoes. "I missed ya, Howie."

Davis sighed as he stood, tension draining from his shoulders as he drew his wife into a hug, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Missed you too, Lina."

The patter of bare feet made them pull apart. Instantly Davis swept his beaming daughter into his arms, making her giggle as they twirled around. The beads in her thickly braided hair clacked together, making her shriek with joy only a child could know. When they stopped, her dark eyes twinkled behind her tiny white smile, just as beautiful as her mother's.

She laughed once and kissed him lightly on the nose, throwing her arms around his neck. "I missed ya too, Daddy!"

"An' I missed you every second of every single day, Sadie-bug," he grinned, tickling her belly as he set her down. The little girl latched onto his hand, lacing her tiny fingers between his large, calloused ones. "You gotta see my drawlin'," she beamed, starting to tug him toward the living room where the TV was announcing the six o'clock news.

"In a minute, Baby," Selina called from the kitchen. "Daddy's gotta eat before he starves to death."

"C'mon, Bug," he chuckled, sweeping the little girl off her feet again. She squealed as he put her on his shoulders and bounced her into the warmly-lit kitchen.

Inside, Selina was hovering over a collection of steaming pots. The room smelled wonderful, like baked chicken and broccoli. Davis leaned in and threw his arm over her slender shoulders, pecking her on the cheek with Sadie still squealing above them, twirling her chubby fingers through the steam.

Selina gave Davis a look, nudging him in the ribs. "Don't you go putting your nose in my cookin'. You'll scuzz it all up," she teased.

"Oh, so then smackin' my butt with the spoon didn't do a thing," he retorted, sweeping Sadie off his shoulders. The little girl giggled as her mama smacked her father's backside with the steaming spoon again.

"Adds flavor," Salina laughed, turning back to the pots like there was nothing funny about it. But Davis was laughing. He was laughing more than he could ever remember. Three straight days of sleeping on his desk over a mound of paperwork was melting out the back of his mind. Suddenly, nothing mattered. His heart and head felt lightened, and it made him laugh like a giddy fool.

He unabashedly pinched Selina's butt through her jeans and laughed as it made her jump. This time he gracefully dodged the swinging spoon, scooping a shrieking Sadie into his arms, and making to hide under the kitchen table.

Then the laughter died down, still echoing pleasantly somewhere deep inside his chest. For a moment, he was content to watch his wife cook and listen to the rolling boil of the pots, watching her skin glisten with moisture from the steam. Above the stove, the old clock ticked a pleasant rhythm. Sadie had latched onto his hand again, swinging it softly back and forth, humming softly as she picked the scars on the old wooden table.

Warm. Ordinary. Pleasant, like a heavy, soul-deep sigh.

"Mama?"

"Yeah Baby?" She asked without turning.

"I need summore cray-uns."

"Which colors?"

"Mmmm… green an' blue."

"Like the sky and grass?"

"Uh huh. Pretty ones."

Davis let the conversation lull him into a trance. He hadn't realized how tired he was until that moment. He felt like he could sleep for days.

Selina glanced over her shoulder. "Howie, you mind getting those for her? In the cupboard there's a bag full."

"Sure."

"Thanks."

"Mmhmm," he hummed, opening the old cupboard, warm and musty from years and use. Even though their townhouse was shabby, Davis took pride that it had memory and a type of comfort that only came from home.

As he rifled through the cabinet, Sadie wandered back to the living room. He could hear her gentle humming softly pouring down the hallway. He sighed, two wax crayons in held in his hands, following the little tune.

When he reached the cozy living room, the TV had been turned off. The sound of crayons on paper, his daughter's humming and the steady tick of his father's old wooden clock were the only things that broke the silence. Sadie looked at him and smiled as he put the crayons in front of her and settled heavily in the overstuffed armchair with a sigh, the tension in his back slowly draining away.

Davis rested his head back and closed his eyes, taking it all in like a breath.

The sound of Sadie's drawing suddenly grew harsh, scribbling thick, violent lines across paper. Davis cracked an eye and watched the concentration hardening his daughter's face, the way she gripped the crayon so tight it turned her knuckles white.

On the scrap of paper, she was scribbling a violent blue line through a mess of grass-tint green.

Something hot and sick roiled in his stomach. Instantly, he paled.

"What're you drawin' Sadie-bug?"

She didn't look up, instead plucked up the green crayon and started scribbling again. "My friend," she said matter-of-factly.

"An imaginary friend?"

"No. A real one. He plays with me sometimes. Hide n' seek."

He tried not to let fear taint his voice. "Then why's he green?"

The girl gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I dunno. He just is." Then she dropped her crayon and turned to him, hands covering her eyes. "An' he wears a mask, like this."

Davis said nothing as he stared. His daughter continued to sit there, facing him, her hands covering her eyes. Silence.

His voice wavered. "S-Sadie?"

She said nothing.

"Baby, could you take your hands off your eyes?"

Nothing.

The lull of sleep was gone, the comfort was gone, the warmth and light and everything that was right with the world had vanished. Stolen. Davis bolted upright from his chair and grabbed his daughter's wrists. Hard. She screamed like an animal in pain, but no matter how hard he tugged, her hands wouldn't budge.

"It's not real! None of it's fucking real! It can't be!"

Suddenly her hands were unglued and she was sobbing, wailing unlike anything he'd seen. Despair. Davis roughly snatched up the drawing, tearing it to shreds until the living room was covered in green and blue-colored paper snow.

He took his daughter by the shoulders, dragging her to her feet, shaking her. Her mouth was open, her face stained with tears, sobs wracking her small body. "He isn't real! None of it!"

"What the HELL is goin' on here?!" Selina standing in the doorway, terror written in her eyes. "Get your dirty hands off her or I swear to God, I'll call the cops."

Davis's vision cleared. His grip on Sadie's shoulders went limp. Again, he felt numb.

The little girl sprinted to her mother's side, latching her arms around her waist and burying her face. "What the hell has gotten into you?" She seethed, breathless.

Davis's heart was pounding madly. His eyes were wide, mouth panting. He took a step backward and looked, bewildered, at his own hands. "I-I'm sorry," he breathed, nearly on the verge of tears. "She had a drawing…."

Sadie had stopped crying, gazing at her father with wet, brown eyes. Selina rubbed her back soothingly before saying, "Baby, why dontcha head up to bed. Daddy an' me gotta talk about something, okay?" She kissed the top of her head before shooing her off. The little girl nodded tearfully, doing what she was told.

Then the room was silent. Selina stood with her arms crossed in the doorway, staring bewildered into her husband's eyes. But for some reason, the rage she'd felt when she first ran into the room had left. Something on her husband's face melted it away. Now all she could feel was a looming shadow of despair.

Trembling, Davis lowered himself back into the armchair, still staring at his hands. Selina crossed the room, sitting herself beside him on the edge of the couch.

"Howie… what happened? I've never seen you that way before."

He shook his head, frustrated. "She…had this drawing…."

"The green thing?"

His eyes flicked up, raw terror like a burning fire.

"It's her imaginary friend. She keeps drawing him over and over again. The therapist at the kindergarten called me about it yesterday. Said the teacher complained."

Davis buried his face in his hands, flinching at Selina's light touch on his shoulder. "Oh god…."

"They said it's normal. You've been gone a long time, you know. Your work keeps you away. It's just something she dreamed up to keep her company."

"You don't understand," Davis exhaled. "The case I've been working on, and_ God_, I can't tell you. You'll think I'm crazy anyways."

He heard her slip off the couch, kneeling in front of him on the floor. Her cool, slender hands took his, pulling them away from his face. The tears hadn't come, but he was still fighting. She watched him intensely, concern written in her eyes.

"If it was just anybody tellin' me the craziest stuff I ever heard, maybe I would think they're nuts. But I know you, Howie, and that look in your eyes is scaring me."

Her words hit him like a dose of concentrated reality. He was _scaring her, _and it felt _wrong._

Something was horribly, horribly wrong. There was no denying it. But acting like a maniac wouldn't help. Scaring his wife and daughter mindless wouldn't help. He had to be strong. He had to be brave in the face of whatever the _hell _was going on.

He took a deep breath, sitting upright, shoulders back. Then, Davis looked into Selina's eyes and told her the entire story—from the night they scraped the creature's body off the sidewalk to the interrogation, to the sudden death of Stacie Fields just hours before.

When he was through, her hands were shaking and cold, wrapped tightly around his. Her eyes were dark, expression grim.

"You know what I think?" She asked slowly.

"What?"

"You better talk to your daughter."

He glanced away, breathed, nodded. "Yeah."

Selina caught his eyes again, urgency, terror in her stare. "But you have to promise me one thing."

Davis swallowed down an awful feeling. "Yeah?"

"Promise you won't scare her when you see the walls."

* * *

Davis didn't want to enter the room. It was the same sick feeling he'd gotten before he'd started the creature's interrogation. The silence, the impending knowledge that something terrible lurked behind that door had cemented his feet to the floor.

But he had to be strong. He had to be brave. For them. For them.

He gathered his courage and turned the doorknob. It opened with a creak. The sliver of dim hallway light poured over his daughter's form, huddled under the covers in her bed. Her back was turned and she was silent.

"Sadie?" The little girl turned to face him, blinking at the glare of the hallway light. "You mind if I turn the light on?"

There was a shuffle of covers as she sat, watching him, giving him a shrug. Davis walked forward, pulling the chain on her shaded bedside lamp. A pang of terror when he did indeed see the walls, grateful Selina had at least prepared him.

They were covered floor to ceiling in her drawings of green, blue-banded creatures with large, gaping black-hole eyes.

The bedsprings groaned as he sat beside her, mouth agape and heartbeat pounding, scanning the covered walls. "Baby," he started shakily. "I wanna talk to you about your friend."

"He says he doesn't like you, Daddy."

Davis's stomach turned to lead when he saw his daughter's eyes. She stared back at him with her head cocked oddly, masking her eyes in shadow.

"Who… who's that, Sadie-bug?"

"My friend in the picture," she said coldly. "He's _mad._"

Davis swallowed at the tight feeling closing his throat. "Why would he be mad?"

She dropped her gaze, fingers fiddling with the blankets. "He says you do bad things." Her eyes snapped up to his and he was relieved to finally see them. Their usual brightness had returned, but it was tainted with a tinge of sadness. "You don't do bad things, do you Daddy?"

Davis gathered his daughter strongly in his arms and closed his eyes tight, squeezing out the unshed tears. "I hope not, Baby," he breathed. "I really do."


	8. Chapter 8: Action

Chapter 8: Action

Davis had fallen asleep at his desk again. Even after spending a rare night at home, there was no way he could have willed himself to sleep even in his own bed.

No matter which way he thought about it, something horrible was happening. Something was messing with his friends and family_. _The memory of Stacie Fields's body dead under the blood-soaked sheet had shown him exactly what this thing was capable of.

This _thing._

Whatever it was, it was out to get him, and it had everything to do with this case.

He wanted more than anything to back out now, forget the whole mess and leave it all behind. But Bishop had made it clear that he didn't have a choice in this. Even if he could wash his hands of it, the government would be breathing down his neck for the rest of his life.

But now, even if he had the power to choose the lesser evil, something was telling him it was already too late.

Something was happening to his daughter. It was _using _her to get to him, and the thought made him positively ill.

He'd been drifting through a haze of pensive half-awareness when yet another pile of folders was slammed down on the desk beside his head. Immediately he startled, gazing blearily at the figure frowning down at him.

Speak of the devil.

"Agent Bishop," he breathed, rubbing his aching neck. It felt like the tension was putting pressure on his brain. He couldn't even think clearly anymore.

"We have another ready in interrogation room six," he said dryly. "The creature known as Donatello has made it clear he's not talking. We've put him in isolation so he won't influence the others."

"Sir, _please. _Is this really necessary? I've barely been home in days, barely slept, can't eat without getting sick…. I have a wife and daughter at home and they're startin' to worry. I don't think I can keep this up much longer."

Bishop's face staid cold, expressionless. "If you care about the safety of this earth, which happens to include the well-being of your family as well as _your own_, it is necessary. I assure you, the consequences of turning your back on this case are nothing you would enjoy, _Detective_."

The last word was spat, like it tasted bad.

"I understand," Davis sighed heavily, ignoring his aching head to flip through the newest pile of paperwork. Endless.

Ever since he saw the blood, he'd forgotten why he'd even agreed to taking on this case in the first place. If he'd known it would be like this, he would have sooner quit the agency.

As he skimmed the files, the idea flickered in the back of his mind. But every way he thought of it, he found himself coming to the same conclusion. It was almost certain that if he got the nerve to save his own neck and quit, he'd probably wind up dead anyways.

"_We will find you. Even in the afterlife, I promise we will find you."_

A cold chill crawled slowly up his spine.

It had gotten Stacie.

It was already in his home, poisoning his daughter.

And it was after him. If he ran, it would _find _him. If he quit now, Bishop would make sure the government did the same. Either way, he was doomed.

"Okay," he breathed, painfully standing from his chair. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

The thing had obviously been drugged. When Davis entered the room, it rocked its head drunkenly in his direction, watching him with glassy eyes. Its face was worn and sick-looking, already gaunt from four days in captivity.

But Davis didn't pity it. Living in the agency's holding facility had to be better than living in the sewers, especially this time of year. The pain in its eyes and the sallow tinge to its skin were probably from grief.

The other creature had made it clear they were capable of it. There was a chance they might even have something close to the emotional capacity of humans. But grief, anger, fear—those were the most easily observable.

During the last four days, Davis had shared those same emotions. In a distant way, he could relate to it. That was how he explained away the sudden pang of guilt.

Or maybe it was because this creature's expressions weren't so guarded, and the blue eyes only made it look sadder.

The creature worked its tongue as Davis approached, a film of sweat dotting his brow.

"Uhnnn…huh?" It blinked hard, eyes unfocused. "Don…told me about you."

That sparked his curiosity. "About me?"

The creature nodded. "He said you don't know what you're doing. And… if we could...y-you could—" It groaned, letting its head rest limp against the gurney, sweat pouring in rivulets down its face. "Wha-what'd you drug me with? I don't feel so good…"

Davis took a step back. For a moment it looked like it was going to be sick, letting its head loll forward, eyes closed. Silent.

He glanced at his watch, struggling to read the time through the smoky haze of exhaustion. He'd been awake for a full seventy-two hours.

"I think he's wrong." Davis glanced up. The creature's head was still hanging forward, but a bit of blue was peeking from the corner of its eye. "You know what you're doing, and you do it 'cause you're scared. You think we'll hurt you. You think we'll kill you. But we wouldn't have. We wouldn't. We might look like monsters, but we're not. Not unless we have a reason."

A flair of anger. Davis stepped closer and the creature struggled to raise its head. Its blue eyes met his with a pained expression. "And that's why you carry weapons. That's why you hide down in the sewers. That's why you had enough artillery and weapons of espionage hidden in that warehouse to stock a Nazi base camp." Davis's voice was escalating. "And that's why one of you tried to _kill_ my officers?!"

The creature found the strength to raise its head, eyes narrowed into a glare. "You broke into our Lair and pointed guns at us. Raph was only _protecting _us!"

Then suddenly, its eyes were brimming with tears.

"What else were we supposed to do? He was trying to save us and they _shot him. _And it—"

Its head dropped forward again, shoulders trembling as thick tears began to spatter the concrete.

And Davis watched with growing compassion forming a knot in his throat.

All he had to do was remember the pictures covering his daughter's walls and every trace of it was gone.

"And it's all _my fault_. All of this... it's my fault. I shouldn't've left him up there. I _knew _he shouldn't be alone! He would've… he would've known. He would've _stopped him_. He would've _saved us._"

There was a pause, a silence so deep the hum of the fluorescent lights was deafening. The creature's shuddering breath became a sob and heavy tears pattered like rainfall, dampening the concrete.

"Leo…" he whispered, "I'm sorry."

When it lifted his head, its eyes were so dull they were milky, tear stained, faded. It opened its mouth as if to speak, breath shuddering, catching in his throat.

From behind, the door flew open with a bang. Davis flinched as Bishop busted in, bellowing, "STOP HIM!"

He lashed out at the creature, grabbing hold of its clenched jaw, rage apparent in his face. Davis reeled just in time to see the creature's mouth fall open, blood flooding its mouth. The room reeked with the smell of iron.

He'd thought he'd seen fear in the creature's eyes before. But nothing could compared to this. Raw terror. The blood dribbled down its chin, eyes wild as he stared into the agent's shaded eyes, his own dying reflection. He coughed, spattering blood on the floor and on Bishop's crisp black suit. Terror so deep, it seemed to stretch on for miles. Darkness cut like razorblades.

It tried to speak, but the words tangled in his dying throat. Instead he choked on its own blood, then vomited gore and black clots down its front.

Davis could only stand their useless, cold, limp, buzzing with the sound of the fluorescent lights screaming through the terrifying silence. The creature, ashen, bloodied, choked again on its own blood and vomit, gurgling its last breath like thick bubbles rising from a putrid stew.

Its feverish eyes grew unfocused, and then it was gone. Davis watched the lethal river snake across the concrete floor, dribbling into the open drain.

The last thing Davis saw was fear written on Agent Bishop's face, and it was unsettling, misplaced as a snowstorm in summer.

Above them, the harsh light flickered, then went out.

* * *

_A/N: Ending this a bit late in time for Holloween, but thus goes life. Only four more chapters to go. Look forward to Chapter 9, "Reaction", soon. Thank you all for your enthusiasm and reviews. It's always the best form of motivation :)_


	9. Chapter 9: Reaction

_A/N: Well this certainly took me long enough. I lost my mojo there for a while, but it seems to have returned for the time being. Angelfeatherwriter and I are working on the next chapter of Clockwork as we speak, and I should have my third SAINW oneshot coming out relatively soon as well. Only three more chapters (plus an epilogue) left for this story. I hope the wait hasn't made it any less suspenseful._

_Thanks for reading!_

_

* * *

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Chapter 9: Reaction

The warm light pouring from the living room was too pleasant, far too welcoming after everything he'd seen. But the fluorescent lights were still humming in Davis's head. Still, he could feel the creature's blood on his hands. He felt dirty, shamed for poisoning his own home with the stench of death and pain and fear.

It was two weeks before Christmas, and Selina was stringing a tangle of Christmas lights around their artificial tree. Sadie, in a nest of shredded paper, hummed happily as she cut out makeshift snowflake decorations.

Davis burst through the door, dropping his briefcase in the dark hall, rushing toward the comforting embrace of the light and Selina's arms. She stroked her husband's hair with startled eyes. But he didn't care. He had to pull her closer, had to breathe in the scent of her hair and remember there was still some light left in the world.

"It's done," he whispered shakily. "It's _done. _Oh _God_, they're gonna kill me… but it's _done._"

She pushed away enough to stare into his troubled eyes. Defeat had made them dark, exhausted, and something sank deep within her like a stone. "Howie…"

Davis shook his head. "I quit. I quit everything. Told Bishop where he could stuff it. I just can't _do _this anymore, Lina."

She snatched him closer, tightening the embrace, whispered in his ear, the threat of tears hot in the back of her throat. Her husband's shoulders trembled, making it harder to swallow them down. "Oh, thank you, Jesus," she prayed, eyes rolled to the heavens. "Thank you."

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

Davis pulled away, blinking his vision clear enough to see his daughter standing frightened in the middle of her nest of paper. The scissors had been cast aside, scraps of paper littering her flannel dress like snow.

He got down on his knee and opened his arms for her, smiling softly. She stumbled into the embrace, gripping at his shirt collar, eyes wide and full of water. She smiled sweetly up at him with trembling lips, and Davis held a wavering smile of his own.

She reached up a tiny hand and gingerly brushed her father's tears away. "Why you cryin', Daddy?"

Davis shook his head and swallowed to steady his voice. "It'll be fine, Baby. I promise. I-I promise I won't do bad things no more."

As if she understood completely, she pressed her lips together, nodded, and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. Davis could feel her sweet breath against his skin, and it meant all the world.

At that moment, only one thought was running through his mind: _for them, for them._

He held his daughter tightly, and breathed. "Forgive me, oh Lord. Please forgive me."

* * *

Hours later, things had settled into a parody of monotony. Dinner was eaten with good food, smiles and the clink of dishware, leaving him warm and filled with the comfort of home.

As Davis washed the dishes, Selina snuck upstairs and tore down Sadie's drawings. She gave him a knowing look when she entered the room again, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

_It's done. They're gone. _

He could wash his hands of this.

Either way he would be doomed, but at least this way, no harm would come to his family. God willing, that thing would leave them alone, and he could probably manage to enjoy a few days of peace before the Feds came knocking on his door.

It's the lesser of two evils, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

By eight o'clock he found himself parked on the worn couch, watching the news with a glazed expression. He'd been too busy contemplating his fate to pay attention to the headlines. Too busy counting Sadie's breaths as she nodded off with her head rested on his stomach.

Then, there was a knock at the door and Davis's comfortable stupor was shattered. From the kitchen, he heard a chair slide against the linoleum floor and Selina's bare feet padding down the hall. Davis stood quietly, shifting the sleeping girl onto the couch cushions with a kiss.

And his heart ached. This could be the last time he ever saw her. But he wouldn't let himself be afraid. He'd made his decision. Now, at least his family would be safe.

The person at the door knocked again, harder this time. The evergreen wreath hanging outside scraped against the wood with the sound of jingling Christmas bells. What a sound to welcome in his death, he thought. There would be no dramatic music in this scene. No time for monologues or hero shots.

Davis knew what was behind that door; men dressed in black with badges to flash in his face and handcuffs for his wrists. They'd show their guns, drag him into an unmarked car, and he'd never be seen again.

As he turned the cold doorknob, Selina gave him a terrified look. Neither of them had the presence of mind to speak. The door opened to the biting cold. Outside it was dark, blowing with a fierce wind that howled promises of an oncoming storm.

A single, heavily-clothed figure stumbled through the threshold, shivering and snow-covered. For a moment, Davis blinked before recognizing his face, and dizzying relief swam through him like a breath of fresh air.

"Lenny? What the hell are you doin' here?"

He was trembling, all-too-familiar fear ablaze in his eyes. "I heard you quit the agency," he blurted, brushing powder off his jacket sleeve. "And I did too."

"Are you nuts!?" Davis shouted. "Don't you know what they could do to you?"

"Kill me. Yeah, I know." Lenny dropped his gaze, distractedly shuffling his boots on the throw rug. When he raised his head again, his face had paled two shades lighter. "Detective—" he began.

"Howard," Davis corrected him.

Lenny turned his eyes away, began again. "Uh, right. Howard. I… have to talk to you. It's about the case… those—those _things."_

Something cold and sharp buried itself in Davis's stomach. He could see the terror growing in Lenny's half-fevered eyes. He tried not to shudder, resting his hand on the man's shoulder in a gesture he hoped it was reassuring. "C'mon," he said, "take your coat off. It's warmer in the living room. We can talk in there."

Lenny nodded hesitantly, working at the buttons of his coat. "Yeah. I just, I'm not even sure you'll believe half the stuff I got to say…"

Selina shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, haloed by the yellow kitchen light. "I'll go put Sadie to bed," she said, turning to Lenny. "And hon, you make yourself at home. It's been a long week."

Lenny nodded again as the woman disappeared, eyes darting nervously around the cramped hallway. "I'm sorry for showing up like this," he murmured, hanging his jacket. "I just don't have any other place to go. I don't have any family here and… no one else will believe me. No one else knows—"

When he turned, he met Davis's eyes, a sudden urgency making them dark, stone-like.

"What's happening?" Davis asked grimly. Something sick had been injected into his bloodstream, and he knew it was bigger than he'd first thought. In the back of his mind he'd always known that quitting the agency wouldn't solve everything so easily.

Lenny wrung his hands, swallowing reflexively. His eyes darted helplessly, trying to look anywhere but his former boss's cold stare. "It's been happening to you too." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Davis had the look of a haunted man. That was apparent. "Things've been… moving on their own. The phone ringing, but you pick it up and no one's there. I… I live alone, but I hear someone… walking, _breathing. _I hear them _talking_ when I … _oh God."_

He'd started trembling again, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Lenny scrubbed his hand over his face, realizing he was hyperventilating. It felt like he'd stood there for ages just trying to breathe before Davis's had fell on his shoulder again.

"C'mon," Davis said. His voice still carried the morbid tones of one speaking at a funeral. Macabre. He escorted Lenny to the living room, finding it empty after Selina had taken Sadie up to bed.

The man sat heavily on the couch, breathed.

"You can't panic," Davis he said, nearly an order. "You're one of the best cops I know, so get a hold of yourself. It ain't helpin' nobody."

Lenny gave him a sallow look. "I know. I know."

Then silence. Davis tried not to watch the man gather himself, but it was impossible. Every time he let his mind wander, little twists of terror were wrenching in his gut. He distracted himself with picking at a worn patch on the armchair.

After a while Lenny hiccupped, but seemed mostly composed. His eyes were read and strained. "Is it true?" He asked hoarsely. "Is it true that thing killed itself today?"

"I was there," Davis answered, another twist making his voice pained. "It bit its own tongue."

"We did something terrible, didn't we?" He breathed, eyes cast to the floor. "We messed with something we shouldn't have."

Davis watched Lenny wring his hands with a distant expression.

"Tonight, I walked by the interrogation room and the janitors… they were hosing the blood off the floor. The last thing I knew, I was in the bathroom puking 'cause there was blood all over my hands. I-I didn't even _touch _anything_._"

"You must've touched _something, _Lenny."

"I didn't!" He snapped. His wide-eyed expression was fevered with desperation. Chills wracked Davis's body, and he gripped the arms of his chair tighter, trying to maintain a solid composure. "I didn't touch anything. Something weird is happening and you know it. T-this thing wants _revenge_, and it won't leave until it gets it."

The two men jumped at a small voice calling from the top of the stairs. "Daddy?"

Davis tried to control his heartbeat. "Sadie? I thought your mama put you to bed."

Lenny tilted forward in his seat, breaking into a cold sweat. He could see the little girl's form perched oddly in the shadows at the top of the stairs. In the dark, she shook her head. Davis stood.

"Mama took my pictures. Why?"

"I'm sorry, Baby," Davis soothed. "Why don't I come up there and tuck you back in?"

Silence. Right before his eyes, Lenny saw the little girl's shadow disappear, like the dark had thickened and swallowed her. Footsteps padded down the hallway upstairs.

Then, Davis moved toward the foot of the stairs, his gaze connecting with Lenny's. For a moment, every muscle in Lenny's body seized with a violent urge to run. But he didn't. He couldn't. He had no place to go.

As he headed toward the darkness up the stairs, Davis watched Lenny's face, his steadily sickening expression. "I know," he said grimly. "I feel it too."

* * *

This scene was all too familiar. The dark, the half-closed bedroom door, the painful twist in his stomach as his hand found the door handle. But this time, there were no drawings on the walls, only Sadie sitting upright in her still-made bed, staring at him oddly by the lamplight filtering in from the curtained windows.

Davis flicked on the light. "Didn't your mama tuck you in?" He asked, noting the still pristine bed sheets.

Sadie stared at him blankly, shook her head no.

Davis's stomach fluttered, but he tried not to let it show. Instead he'd act normally, pulling back her covers to tuck his daughter in. But as he moved to pull back quilt, he stopped.

Something blue was peeking out from under the pillow. Curiously, he pulled it out, holding it up to the bedside light.

A strip of blue fabric with a matching pair of slit holes. Its edges were crusted with filth and old, black-clotted blood.

He dropped it like it burned him.

"Where the _hell _did you get that?!"

The little girl fingered the fabric, turning it in her hands, and looked up at him with an innocent expression. "I told you he's real."

Davis could only stand there and stutter. "S-Sadie…"

"And he's mad. He said you did bad things. He said you hurt his family. He said it's _your _fault."

"No! Sadie, _please_ don't.._._"

He had his back to the door, hand on the door handle. Part of him was torn between getting the hell out of there and saving his daughter. But the strange look in her eyes, the odd notes in her voice told him that somehow that was _not _his daughter. And then, a stab of raw, white terror when he thought of Selina. She hadn't brought Sadie up to bed. He hadn't seen her since she'd left to do so… "Selina!" He yelled her name down the hallway, letting fear seep into his voice like a bleeding wound. "Selina!"

He could hear Lenny panicking in the living room, but Davis couldn't move an inch to leave the room. He watched in horror with his hand glued to the door knob as his daughter fussed over the bloodstained bandana like a precious pet or a beloved toy. Her tiny fingers started picking away at the flecks of blood.

"She said she was gonna make some hot chocolate," the girl said emotionlessly. Then, her eyes rolled up to her father's, and she smiled.

They were brown, but they were not hers.

Then, a deafening crash in the kitchen tore him away, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream. His breath caught in his throat as he burst through the door and barreled down the stairs. "Selina!"

He found her in the kitchen, a pan of boiled water tipped down her front. Her hands were red, raw, blistered, steaming. She held them in front of her and screamed, howled until Davis grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, protectively pulling her thin frame toward him.

There were tears running down her face, born from raw pain and fear. As Davis took her in his arms, her eyes searched in desperation. He called her name again, her badly burned hands caught in his, trying to meet her unfocused gaze.

He called her name again.

"Selina!"

"No…_"_

Lost… somewhere in the darkness she was searching, and she found only_ him_—a presence so strong she felt it in her bone marrow.

"Howie, I can't…"

_Its anger…_

"Shh… Baby, it's okay…"

_Its rage…._

Her hands burned as she pressed them to her eyes.

"I-I'm blind_."_

And she knew his revenge had only just begun.


	10. Chapter 10: Friends

Chapter 10: Friends

The clock in the living room ticked a disconcerting rhythm through the quiet house, and Lenny tried desperately to forget the old Poe story running through his head. As he flipped nonchalantly through the TV channels, he kept a blank, relaxed expression despite the feeling of his hand sweating around the remote.

After Davis had rushed his wife to the hospital, they'd left Lenny to watch his sleeping daughter, though Lenny wasn't so sure that was such a good idea. Too much was happening. All around him, people were dropping like flies—the first creature, then a second, then Stacie, then the third_. _Ever since the sewer raid, something wasn't right. Something was out to get everyone involved with the case. It'd been following Davis just as strongly as it'd been following him. Now Lenny was certain he had nowhere else to run.

Lenny had never been a believer in the supernatural, but the day that monster fell from the sky, his entire perspective on life had made a one-hundred and eighty degree turn. There were things out there that he could never wrap his head around. There were things out there that no one was ever meant to mess with.

But they did. They messed with it. They stuck their noses into something they shouldn't have. He was sure of it. He could feel it in the air when he heard Selina's screaming. The thing… the _ghost..._was in the house, waiting to make its next move.

Flipping through the channels for the fifth time in a minute, Lenny finally settled on the eleven o' clock news, an adrenaline-fueled pang of terror twisting in his stomach.

The ghost.

He hadn't thought of it as a ghost until that moment, but the name seemed right. Before it was more like an energy, just a lot of really crazy things happening around him and around the case. First there was Stacie on that gurney with a weapon coated in her blood that'd been confiscated back at the station hours ago. Next there were the nightmares that replayed the sound of gunshots ripping through the sewers, the kick of the pistol in his hands, and the look of hate in the creature's eyes as he watched it die, rasping out its last word: _"…Leo."_

And then came the phone calls. He didn't have caller ID on his house phone, and he hadn't unpacked his message machine since the last move, so he answered his phone no matter what. That was until about the thirteenth call he'd answered with no one on the other line. That was until he stopped trying to ask who was there and paid attention to the seemingly unbroken silence.

He'd concentrated so long his ears were ringing, until he could _feel _the electric running from the outlet and through the receiver. And then, there was a whisper, "…_Leo_."

Then, he'd dropped the receiver and the portable TV sitting on his kitchen had jumped to life on its own, blaring static at him so loudly he'd flew out of his chair and sprinted for his jacket, fumbling for his car keys, and high-tailed it to Detective Davis's house.

Half-terrified, half-lazily staring at the news playing on the Davis's perfectly normal TV screen, Lenny really had no idea what he was doing there. He couldn't run from a ghost. Quitting the force could have never undone all the evil he'd created, couldn't have taken back the bullets he'd pumped into that creature's chest.

He remembered briefly the body of the first creature, cracked like a walnut shell with its innards steaming in the winter cold. At first, he'd been too horrified with the thought to pay attention, but like the silence on the other end of the receiver, there was more to the situation that meets the eye.

The fallen one hadn't just been some creature. It had swords, yes, and back then even the thought of it was terrifying. But those were ninja swords, if his memory served him, and from what he knew, those kinds of weapons took a lot of skill and a hell of a lot of practice to master. And then there was the raid. He could remember how perfectly engineered that disguised door had been. If the Sergeant hadn't seen the scrapes across the concrete across the floor, they may have never found the creatures' home.

But it was a home. As shabby and filthy and poor as it was, it was a _home, _with just as much spirit, warmth, and comfort as the house he was sitting in now.

Tainted with the smell and taste of death.

As the news ended, the TV boasted a colorful commercial for vacuum cleaners, and Lenny tightened his grip around the remote, sending an apprehensive glance up the darkened staircase at the other end of the room. Something in the air was just _not right. _The darkness at the top was just too thick, sitting like a pool of placid was _unnatural. _He could feel it in his gut, but tried to ignore it like the ticking of the clock.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  
_

He'd always known they were more than creatures.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  
_

Those four shots echoed through his brain.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  
_

And his heart pounded with the rhythm of the clock until he was _sure _he'd always known this presence had been the fallen one's ghost. He'd killed its family without mercy, even when he _knew _they were more than just monsters living in filth. And still, he fired those four shots. Still, they'd taken the others like prisoners of war.

No, even worse—they'd caged them like animals.

He had its brother's blood on his hands. The ghost had made that much apparent.

Lenny dropped the remote and the room suddenly went ice-cold. All the lights in the house flickered, hummed with a tired sigh, then went out. He sat in darkness for a moment, listening to the ticking clock in the hollow, electric-less silence, trying to will away the sensation of congealing blood on his hands.

On shaking legs, Lenny pushed off the couch and stumbled to the nearby window, drawing back the lace curtain. Outside, even the streetlights had gone out. In the sudden, ink-like blackness, he could barely see his own hand in front of his face.

But he knew someone was there. There were no footsteps, no sound of breath. His first instinct was to reach for his gun, and his fingers brushed the metal before he could think.

A small noise behind him sent him reeling, gun cocked and pointed, heart racing and panting for breath. Through the throb of his heartbeat in his head, he could hear the voice of the little girl. "Mister," she asked shyly, "where's my daddy?"

The impenetrable blackness moved cleared as if it had a mind of its own, letting the moonlight in. By the weak light reflected off the falling snow outside the window, he could see her small figure clothed in a white nightgown, her eyes glistening like a raven's. Her voice wavered as she spoke again. "I'm scared…"

Behind them, the TV suddenly burst to life in throes of deafening static. Silver light filled the room, silhouetting the girl's gaunt, sunken-eyed form. Lenny held the gun in both hands, trembling violently as it aimed for the girl's forehead, and yelped like an injured dog.

The static blared, and the little girl studied him placidly with her black-hole eyes. She smiled a toothy grin, and Lenny gawked at the tattered strip of bloodstained blue fabric gripped in her tiny hand.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the phone began to ring.

_Ring. Ring. Ring…_

The sound of gunfire erupted through the quiet neighborhood, and the settling darkness grew like ink-stained steam rising through the sewer grates. From the horizon, the harsh wind blew in a blizzard that whispered the names of ghosts through the death-rattle of leafless trees.

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Yes, I do realize I'm the spawn of all things evil. X3 _

_Reviews much appreciated! And as always, thanks for reading._


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